


Through the Window

by icandrawamoth



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Birds, Canon Era, Fluff, Foreshadowing, M/M, also I always write him as 'Jehan' but 'Prouvaire' seems right for canon era idk, also I've been wanting to experiment with this section format so here it is, my attempt at capital-R Romantic Jehan, the most austere shipping I've ever written, what even are these tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-01
Updated: 2015-06-01
Packaged: 2018-04-02 07:22:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4051336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icandrawamoth/pseuds/icandrawamoth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Combeferre finds himself invested in a nest of birds outside his window and drags Prouvaire not-so-unwillingly along for the ride.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Through the Window

**Author's Note:**

  * For [anthean](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anthean/gifts).



> For a prompt about Combeferre being an awkward, enthusiastic nerd and adopting baby birds. I don't know if this is exactly what you wanted, but I hope you like it either way.

I.

Combeferre is delighted when he notices a robin building a nest in the branch outside his window. He spends hours when he’s not working or in the Musain watching her slow progress, the little pile of twigs and leaves and fluff building up in a crook tucked amidst the greenery of the tree.

Soon, her project is complete, and not long after, the nest is graced by five eggs, cream colored and blotched with deep red. Combeferre waits eagerly for them to hatch, stationed near the window with book in hand, reading up on the species. Two weeks, it promises, and the births will happen.

“You should keep your window closed,” Prouvaire advises the first day he visits and Combeferre points the nest out to him. “A robin flies inside, that means death will follow.”

Combeferre smiles and gently turns the conversation away. His lover may worry about such superstitions, but though Combeferre believes many things, this he is not concerned about.

Prouvaire enthusiastically joins him in his vigil, asking after the eggs by way of greeting every time the two of them meet, and together they await the blessed delivery.

II.

Thirteen days later, Combeferre rushes into the Musain with a huge grin on his face, and Prouvaire’s answering expression tells him he must know before Combeferre can speak.

“It happened?” he asks excitedly, and lights up at Combeferre’s breathless nod.

“All five, healthy. I’ve been watching all day. You’ll have to come and see them after.”

“I wouldn’t miss it.”

Waiting through the meeting is almost intolerable, though getting back to see the little bundles again, watching Prouvaire coo at them through the window, is worth it.

III.

Each day, the hatchlings grow larger. Combeferre moves his desk in front of the window the better to keep an eye on them. There is nothing better than to look up from his papers and see the mother robin fluttering back and forth, bringing sustenance to ever-hungry little mouths and hearing the incessant soft peeping through the pane. Prouvaire makes a habit of stopping by even more often to check in on them and their self-appointed overseer.

On one of these days, Prouvaire has distracted from his vigil (he’s found his lover’s lips on his neck can do that), but his attention is yanked back by a terrible sound from outside the cracked window – a frantic fluttering of wings, a soft animal scream. He jerks back and looks over – just in time to see his landlady’s cat perched on the branch, a limp ball of brown and red feathers dangling from its mouth, a hungry look still in its eye.

Combeferre jerks to his feet and slams open the window. “Get out of here, you beast!” he cries, incensed, and the ugly yellow creature gives him a careless look before climbing away, still dragging its prize.

Devastated, Combeferre looks at the nest, the five babies all squawking raucously, upset by the hubbub. Prouvaire is leaning over to get a look too, seeming slightly saddened but otherwise unperturbed. “Cats have to eat,” he says mildly. “It’s only nature.”

“They’ll die without her.”

“Large percentages of small animals die, mothers or no,” Prouvaire points out. “It protects the world from surplus population.”

“Five robins aren’t going to overpopulate the earth,” Combeferre returns. He eyes the nest outside the window, trying to judge distance. If one of them leans out far enough, he should be able to seize it. “If I hold onto you,” he tells Prouvaire, the lighter of the two of them, “you can lean out and bring it in. I’ve watched them come this far; I will care for them until they can be released.”

“As you wish,” Prouvaire says lightly. He kneels upon the desk and leans over the sill. “You won’t drop me.”

“Of course not.” Combeferre takes hold of his hips, anchoring both of them the best he can. “Be careful; if you startle them, they may panic and fall.”

Prouvaire leans out over the branch – Combeferre wonders for a moment what this spectacle must look like from street level – and with tender care takes hold of the nest before levering himself back inside.

“Does this count against your superstition?”

Prouvaire’s mouth quirks. “I didn’t see any flying, only carrying.”

IV.

“Worms,” Combeferre announces, looking up from his book to where Prouvaire is peering in at the nest in the box he’d dug up to place it in, “finely chopped and mixed with meat or eggs and fed in small quantities directly into the mouth.”

“I do believe I have worms in my garden,” Prouvaire says. “Shall I run and retrieve some?”

“If you would. And a bit of meat while you’re out. I’ll find you some money.”

V.

Combeferre is exhausted. The babies must be fed several times an hour while the sun is in the sky, and it leaves little time for anything else. He is lucky to have procured them at the start of a string of days off from Necker, but it still leaves very little time for himself. He is only thankful they sleep most of the night.

Prouvaire has taken to giving him a half-amused, half-pitying look. “Perhaps,” he says now, “it would have been better–”

“No,” Combeferre sighs as he finishes another feeding and returns the last hatching to the box. “It is worth it.”

Prouvaire smiles. “I’m glad you think so.”

VI.

He puts on a show, but Combeferre doesn’t think it actually takes that much convincing for Prouvaire to take care of the birds when he returns to work. He won’t admit it, but it’s clear he has grown rather fond of them, going to so far as to name all five after different long-dead poets. The act makes Combeferre smile. 

VII.

Another two weeks pass thus, the two of them shifting care of the babies as they are available. Combeferre thrills to see them grow bigger and stronger every day, apparently quite taking to care he hadn’t been sure initially would be enough.

Soon, they are ready to venture out of the nest, and the first time one of them – Juvenal – takes flight across the room, the delighted whoop Prouvaire lets out removes all doubt. Combeferre’s accompanying grin is bright.

The little ones are taking food from the men’s hands less and less often now, beginning to grow confident in finding their own meals in the food their caretakers leave in the box for them.

“They’ll be ready to leave soon,” Prouvaire muses one day as the two of them are reclining on the bed watching their charges flit experimentally about the room.

Combeferre nods. “It will be a good day.”

“Like watching children leave home.” Prouvaire laces their fingers together, smiling as the one called Dante alights at the end of the bed. “Will you miss them?”

“I think I will,” Combeferre admits. “It will be bittersweet in a way.”

“Indeed.”

VIII.

A few days later, they decide it’s time. The birds are all fluttering around the room constantly, and as fond as Combeferre has grown of them, he is also ready to have his home back to himself.

Prouvaire comes over for the occasion, and they open the window wide, place the little ones on the desk and sit back to watch. At first they approach with caution, seemingly unsure of the wider world outside. Then, one by one they take wing, some disappearing into the sky, one or two alighting for a time on the branches of the tree outside which was their original home before following.

“Perhaps they will return to visit,” Jehan suggests.

“One can hope,” Combeferre agrees.

They celebrate their success.

IX.

The early days of June are sweltering. Combeferre, home alone for once, pushes the window wide to let in a breeze. He looks up from his papers at the sound of fluttering wings and smiles to see a robin alight on his dresser.

He is quite taken with the thought of one of his own returning, and he has entirely forgotten his lover’s initial dark words.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't consider myself an especially clever writer; that superstition and how it tied in at the end just sort of happened, and I'm really quite proud of it. ^_^


End file.
